


Apokatastasis

by Aris



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Hurt Derek Hale, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Pairing if you Squint, Potions, Sheriff Stilinksi is a cat, The Alpha Pack, Werewolf Healing, Witchboy Stiles Stilinksi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-14 19:58:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3423641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aris/pseuds/Aris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stuck in a face-off with a member of The Alpha Pack, Dereks' saviour is an odd fellow.</p><p><b>Apokatastasis</b>: restoration of the body back into its original form, recovery from sickness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by [this picture](http://auroaronkitten.deviantart.com/art/The-Witch-s-Son-265624629) and [this music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2kG0pYEsOo)

One of the alphas snarls viciously at him, teeth bared and red eyes fixed on Derek's own blue ones. It's crouched on all fours, somehow shrouded in shadow despite the moon brightly lighting the clearing, but Derek can just see the faint detail of the Alphas flank. Can see the blood matted in the flesh around its claws.

His blood.

Its haunches stretch as it rounds him lazily, faking a step forward then drawing away when Derek reaches his own claws towards it. It jumped him, when he was alone, and raked a trail down his right leg. Being thrown against a tree can't have helped, either, and now Derek doesn't think he can support his own weight - wouldn't even have a chance of getting away if he _could_ stand up. He's dead meat. He knows it, and the Alpha knows it. It's playing with him, like a cat plays with a mouse it's caught, and Derek just wants it to get it over with already.

He thinks of the Pack back home, and swallows down any feelings that well up with the reminder. It's too late, now. Peter will look after them, even if he's been a bit unhinged since the fire. Peter knows how to run a pack, and Derek doesn't have a doubt in his mind Scott or even Jackson will have a thing or two to say to him if he starts up on a murderous rampage. Everyone's safe. They can look after themselves.

Except for him, apparently.

The Alpha makes another feint at him, and this time Derek wasn't paying attention, was distracted by his thoughts, and flinches away at the sudden proximity. The growl that comes next sounds suspiciously like a laugh, and Derek contemplates how much it would hurt if he just pulled out his own heart and stopped this game here and now. His pride would certainly be better off.

He's half convinced himself to try it out when a voice calls from one side of the clearing, breaking his train of thought and the Alphas' action.

"Hey there!" A shadowed figure strides from the trees, a bunch of flowers in one hand and the other raised in a half greeting. There's a leather satchel hanging from one crooked shoulder, a chain of feathers and bells dangling from from the fastening obnoxiously, and what seems to be a dead bird protruding from an over stuffed pocket, the glinting of its dead gaze catching Dere's attention. The stranger looks undisturbed by the sight of a massive black wolf with red coals for eyes, and only draws closer, a merry spring in his step accompanied by an off-season jingling. Derek has to wonder if he's hallucinating - or better yet, dead already.

The alpha bearing above Derek makes a threatening noise, drawing back its gums to expose its sizeable teeth. The stranger doesn't hesitate for a moment or even skip a step as he comes forward more, drawing up short in front of the two Werewolves.

"No need for that, now is there. In fact, I should be the one - ah, baring my teeth at you, though I don't think it would have quite the same effect," He pulls down the dark green hood covering his features, revealing a pale face hollowed out but smiling wanly at the Alpha "No, you have a lot more teeth. I'm just a poor human boy, lost in the moonlit woods..." He looks off to the sky, dropping his hand to rest on the opening of his bag as if caught in contemplation. He's obviously crazy, and Derek tries to figure out how he even got this far out in the woods without even a weapon in sight.

Derek can feel the Alpha above him tense, hind legs pushing back as if getting ready to spring. He closes his eyes abruptly, shields them with his arm and waits for the inevitable blood splutter when the Alpha rips into the poor guys chest - but.

Nothing.

After a few moments, he steadily lowers his arm, drawing back his eyelids slowly to take in the site of the frowning man, who is covered in a noticeable lack of blood. The Alpha is gone, though, and Derek is momentarily confused until he hears a whimper above him, low and stressed . The dark coated Werewolf dangles impossibly above him, seemingly held by an invisible hand, and his eyes are still red and piercing but panicked, too. His strong legs push uselessly against nothing as he continues to struggle despite a lack of proximity to any visible enemy. 

The man just tutts.

"Come on my land, try to dirty my grass with Werewolf blood and then you try and _kill_ me? Where's the chivalry these days," His hazel eyes glitter a little, like he finds it funny. He observes the Alpha a little longer, before dropping his gaze to where Derek lies on the floor. He smiles warmly and offers him a hand up, not sparing a moment for a greeting. His fingers are pale and thin, almost skeletal, and the nails are stained black with an edging of red pressed against the skin. Derek might be smelling blood, but he's coated in so much of his own he's not really sure. 

Derek hesitates, suddenly accurately aware this man is somehow holding an Alpha in suspension with what appeared to be minimal effort, and that said man was clearly really, really unhinged. And maybe covered in blood. The man lets out a huff of breath, grabbing Derek's wrist without any further invitation and making to hoist him up as light encouragement. It's somewhat a relief that he isn't strong enough to support Derek's weight.

"Up we get Sourwolf, no time like the present. I can dangle him in the air," He waves his hand towards the now snarling Alpha, "for a little while yet, but he might have some buddies. And I hate having dead people - is that politically correct, do you prefer Werewolves? I'm never really sure with these new shapeshifters - in my forest. Brings all the wrong sort of neighbour around, you know." While he talks, Derek uses his grip on his wrist to support himself as he drags himself to his feet, wincing at the slight pain of his wounded leg. Alpha-inflicted wounds were always the worst; they stayed too long and hurt far too much for what they looked like. Isaac said it was almost like being human, having to wait for something to heal.

"Well, there you go," The stranger smiles broadly, stepping away. "Can you walk? I wouldn't think so - here," A staff appears, apparently from nowhere, though Derek sees the wing on the mans bag suddenly start swinging back and forth as if disturbed. "That should do it." He looks Derek up and down appraisingly, " Come on, off we go." He presses the mahogany staff into Derek's free hand and lets go off his wrist in one fluid movement, turning and bouncing off towards the way he came in a flounce of woolen green material. 

He hesitates. He's injured enough that he knows he won't be getting back to the Pack anytime soon, and he can't howl because the rest of the Alpha Pack will hear him and undoubtedly come running to finish him off. Derek glances up at the dangling Alpha, sees the way it can't seem to open its mouth wide enough to howl and how its paws hit at nothing in the air in front of it. The man said the spell wouldn't hold forever, but if it held for a few hours, Derek might be able to heal in time to make his getaway before the Alpha was free. But then again, Derek has no idea how good the mans word is. He's clearly some kind of Spark - someone with power, if he can hold that Alpha. Derek's never heard of one in these parts, though.

He can't wait here. He can't call the pack. He can't get back to the Pack, and there's a whole other pack of Alphas sniffing him down as he stands here.

Sighing to himself, he pushes the staff against the ground, squares his shoulders, and limps off after the strange man with the honey eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

They're not walking - or in Dereks case - limping, for long before they come across a stone cottage. Small bushes grow outside, a vine creeping into cracks in the grey stone takes up the whole right side of the dwelling and a small chimney haphazardly situated over the dark tiled roof puffs steam out in a tiny trail. It feels wonderfully isolated, and the man leads Derek merrily through the small plots of growing land just outside the cottage walls before turning to him at the door.

"This is my... abode." He gestured dramatically "Ignore John, he can be a little territorial - doesn't really like Werewolves. Take a seat by the fire inside and I'll get something for your leg." The man opens the rickety door and is halfway inside before he stops again, a creek emphasising his halt "Oh, yeah. I'm Stiles." he smiles again, face partially illuminated by the candle light inside and partially by the moonlight still bearing down on them. Derek notices yet another feather, this time dangling from his ear, before Stiles disappears inside, the door left open for Derek.

Cautiously, he steps in after him. He feels instantaneously warmer in the small room, his eyes finding the source of the heat as a fire Stiles had left lit below the chimney. Above it rests a black pot, lid mostly concealing its contents but the smell of boiling vegetables unmistakable in the crowded space. The homey sight makes Derek smile a little, and he can't help but feel slightly more at ease at the lack of of any kind of threat. There's no array of Werewolf killing weaponry in site, though Derek thinks Stiles probably wouldn't need something as mundane as a knife to kill him, and the way the inside of the cottage is filled with a warm, yellow light is everything but foreboding. There's still something nagging at him to step back outside and get away while Stiles isn't paying attention, but Derek knows his chances outside are minimal right now. Stiles doesn't seem to want to hurt him, has done nothing but help him since he found him, and is a significantly better bet than what lies elsewhere in the woods.

Decision made, he pushes the door closed and hears a metal lock fall down into place behind him. Derek gingerly makes his way into the room, looking around at the various pieces of furniture staged in odd angles. There are two chairs by the fire, one wicker looking chair with a squishy red pillow falling over the edges and one rocking chair closer to the window; on it lies a stretched out tabby cat, who has one unnaturally clear eye focused on Derek's neck. It's a little bit unnerving, cats have always given Derek a weird feeling, but he lowers himself down into the chair opposite it nevertheless. The cat growls uneasily, and Derek comes to the sudden realisation this must be John. 

No wonder he doesn't like Werewolves.

It's rude to listen to other people when they're not in 'normal' hearing distance, but Derek supposes not all rules apply when you're in someones middle-of-the-woods cottage and freshly mauled by an Alpha. He lets himself lapse back into his sense and can hear Stiles in the room beyond, apparently sorting through stuff if the clanks and thumps are anything to go by. He's muttering softly under his breath in a constant stream Derek can't quite make out, but isn't sure he would understand even if he could. It's familiar in that the gentle sound of someone else's voice is alike to the Pack's home - always warm, always occupied. 

There's a lot of _stuff_ crowding the shelves in this room. Derek can't identify most of the dried plants hanging from the wooden beams above, but he can most certainly recognise the dead rabbits dangling next to the fire, still fully skinned. There's a mass of feathers in the basket next to it, all different colours and sizes, some patterned and others plain. Derek briefly wonders what sort of purpose they could even serve except Stiles making them into more little chains or jewelry - Derek supposes he could use them for fishing, too. On the shelf to the far right is an assortment of glass bottles - long thin ones with scribbled labels and rounded ones with inky skulls plastered over their opaque glass. Various bits of parchment are scattered between some glasses and a noticeable layer of dust has formed over the bigger bottles, betraying their lack of use. 

Animal bones and dried skins takes up another shelf - the empty eyes of what was once a mountain lion stare down at Derek, smaller and more delicate bones propped up against its off-white jaw. He wonders how it died, if Stiles killed it or just found it. He remembers the dead bird in his bag. Did he make a habit of dragging dead things back to his cottage? Was Derek next for his collection? After a mountain lion, there can't be much more to collect. Werewolf skulls had to be a rarity.

"Hey," Stiles drags out the word, rounding the corner and ducking into the main room, "I have some things lying about that might help with an Alpha wound, can't say I deal with them regularly, though. I might be a bit rusty, but you look like the type who can put up with a little pain - a big tough-y like you," Stiles grins at him and places a small black bag on the ground next to Derek's feet, before unfolding his legs once more and crossing the room to the shelf of bottles. He drags his finger down the line of them, lips moving with each label and a small pinch of concentration emerging between his autumn eyes.

Stiles has evidently ditched his cloak and now stood in well-fitted black trousers that stopped slightly short of his burgundy leather shoes, showing off dully striped socks. A haggard looking grey t-shirt hung from his shoulders, leaving his arms bare and revealing a slip of a painfully pale and salient ribcage. Beads hung around his neck and hit together obnoxiously with every small movement, the sound of their collisions a constant music to Stiles every moving body. He was eccentric, for sure, and it reminded Derek briefly of the Circus that had come parading through the track in the forest a few years previously. In particular, the tall man with the black hat and strange shadows dancing at his feet. 

Pushing his dark hair back from his face, Stiles held forward a comparatively small bottle containing a dark red liquid, smiling his ever present smile and saluting triumphantly. "And here we have it! Blood of a - well..." he brings the bottle back to his chest and sinks down on his knees in front of Derek, "Blood of something. I think I smudged the label - but it's definitely the right stuff!" He exclaims at Dere's concerned look, "I mean, I know it is. This is one of my mum's bottles, I always get the ones with the thicker glass so I don't break them if I drop them, but she always used to get these thin ones and..." Stiles trails off, frowning to himself. 

There's an abrupt sadness about his features, and his strangely bright eyes stare off into the fire for a moment, lost and unconcentrated. It's a look Derek knows all too well, and it looks horribly out of place on Stiles's young face. Gently, Derek clears his throat. Stiles jolts at the noise, knocking his heels against the rocking chair and disturbing John where he lay. The cat jumps heavily on the floor as Stiles sings a variety of 'sorry's! at it, his beseeching ignored as it struts off towards the divide of the other room and shoots Derek a very dirty, very human look. Stiles makes an apologetic face and shrugs his thin shoulders, the hollows of his collarbones dipping dangerously in.

"John's a drama queen, especially when you upset him while he's sleeping. He's going to be moody with me all day now, and I'll have to feed him that fatty meat he likes so much." Stiles chats as he pushes Derek's leg up onto the rocking chair opposite, seemingly oblivious to the way it lives up to its name and keeps the leg less than steady. "I don't know how I ended up with him here. Well. I kind of do. It gets kind of lonely up here all alone, and there was these two cats having a fight near the river -"

"You take in strays often, then?" Stiles stops rolling up Derek's trousers and looks up at him, face lighting up.

"So he talks! I thought you were a total tall, dark and brooding type. Though I guess you still are - but you speak! I haven't heard any talk in a while, you know, it's all animals around these parts and the folks in town don't like me so much." He ducks back down to push Derek's trouser up higher, carefully not to press on the wound, "It's mostly just me talking to myself and John just meowing back when he's hungry, the heartless bastard." 

His talkativeness is kind of endearing, in a weird way. It makes Derek feel comfortable, the way Stiles fills in the silence with meaningless chatter; it's friendly and all together not something he experiences often. People usually talk at him until they realise he doesn't talk back much, and don't give him much of a chance after that. But the things Stiles is saying sound very lonely and more than a little desperate, and Derek wonders how long he's been out here like this. He mentioned going to the town, presumably for supplies like glass bottles as he seems to grow and catch his own food. Derek can't image anyone not liking him, but a lot of the villagers are more than a little wary of the things that come out of the woods. 

Trusting people don't live long around here - but Stiles is on his knees before Derek, neck completely vulnerable, talking away about his cat and his mum. It pulls at his heart strings, makes him feel a bit softer inside that Stiles might trust him. Or, Stiles knows he can defend himself. Both attractive traits, in Derek's eyes.

"I'm Derek," he tells him, and is rewarded by another brilliant Stiles smile. 

"Oh I know you - you're in Peter Hale's pack, right? The only local Werewolves except for your friend back there," A pair of scissors appears in Stiles hand, and Derek doesn't have time to even flinch before he's merrily cutting away at the fabric, "No worries, just need to get to the wound - I can sew it back together afterwards, I'm good with my hands." And doesn't that just take Derek's mind somewhere else, as if having a weirdly attractive Witch-Spark-Human kneeling in front of him wasn't bad enough. "Anyway, I hope you get rid of them soon or I might have to do something about them, they're a terror - keep thundering around in my woods like they own the place. Chasing away all the animals, I tell you - and how am I supposed to feed John if every rabbit and bird from here to Albion is scared off by that pack of misfits?" 

"Could you do it?"

Stiles reaches down for the small black bag on the floor, opening it carefully and depositing a small mix of the dried leaves inside into his hand before closing it once more.

"Get rid of them? I guess I could. I don't really want that kind of price on my head. Werewolves are stupidly proud creatures - no offence intended, Sourwolf - and I don't fancy the kind of trouble that comes from teleporting that bunch of idiots to god knows where. No, I'd much rather you drive them out." He uncapped the bottle with his teeth and the pungent scent of old blood reaches Derek's nose and causes him to roll his lips back with disgust. The dark haired man tips a few drops of the blood into his palm with the unidentified leaves, and places the bottle back down on the floor besides him, rubbing the blood into the vegetation with the flat of his index finger.

"This might sting a little," he smirks, all cheekbones and wicked eyes, before transferring some of the bloody paste to his right hand and pressing it deep into one of his wounds. At first, Derek only registers the cold of Stiles skin and the unsettling sensation of something inside his leg, before a sharp ache starts up. His breath hitches slightly in surprise, and Stiles only drags his finger down the rest of the wound, depositing the strange mix into the incision. The pain level hypes up and Derek is acutely aware of the burning in the treated cut - it feels like a brand is being pressed from the inside out, and his eyes almost start watering. Fire. Of course it feels like fucking fire.

Stiles smooths his bloodied hand against Derek's leg, and the effect is eerily similar to when the Pack takes pain from him. He glances down at the boney fingers, only now noticing the damaged brass of rings on Stiles fingers, and watches as his flesh knits itself back together under the cadaverous digits as if it were any other wound. The feeling of fire leaches away.

"You're a champ, honestly. The biggest, baddest, scariest wolf there ever was." Stiles voice is warm and covered in a light humour as he meets his eyes, "And since you're so big and bad, you're going to have to sit still for the over two."

Stile smiles to himself, pouring out more blood, and Derek thinks he might be in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably going to make this into a series, ya know, when they actually _get together_...
> 
> [tumblr](http://norsed.tumblr.com)


End file.
